A Finer End

Fiona shook her head. “When I came back from Jack’s, I found him in the studio. He was—I’ve never seen him like that. My painting—he had my painting, the one of the Abbey, with the child. He’d cut it with his knife. And then he—he—”

“Slow down,” Kincaid said gently. “What happened then?”

“He said things I didn’t understand, something about stopping it once and for all, and he took the painting.”

“Bram left with the painting?”

Fiona nodded. “Stop what? What did he mean? Where has he gone? Bram—”

Kincaid took the north path. More treacherous, yes, but faster, and if Gemma had done it, so could he. The setting moon provided enough illumination that he climbed without mishap, driven by fear of what he would find at the top.

Once at the summit he stopped, letting his breathing ease. Then he went forward quietly, scanning the silvered turf for a shadow of movement.

He found Bram Allen on the far side of St. Michael’s Tower, in the spot where Faith had lain. Bram sat huddled against the wall, Fiona’s painting clutched to his chest, the knife in his right hand visible against the canvas.

“Bram,” Kincaid called softly, coming to a halt a few feet away.

Bram stood, looking at him without surprise. “I’ll give them blood, if that’s what they want,” he said clearly. “But not that girl and her baby. Not again.”

“Who wants blood?” Kincaid stood motionless.

“Old Ones. Garnet knew. Garnet always knew about them. That night we danced, here, in the grass. It was Samhain, the time when the veil is thinnest. We called them and they came. We were wild with it, invincible, we possessed the world. But they wanted more—a life—and we were just the instruments.”

“Sarah.”

“I saw her face, for only an instant, above the windscreen. I’ve seen it every day of my life since. How did Fiona know?”

“The child in the painting.” Kincaid inched closer, aware of the glimmer of the knife.

“Why? Why did she come to Fiona?”

“That must have been terrible for you, when Fiona began to paint little Sarah.”

“Fiona didn’t understand why I couldn’t bear the sight of them. Then when she wanted to hang them in the gallery, I couldn’t refuse.”

“But why kill Garnet, Bram?”

“It was building again, the old power. Garnet believed she could stop it—that we could stop it if I told. She came into the gallery. When she saw Fiona’s paintings she said it was a divine judgment, that Fiona was my retribution. Fiona.…” The despair in his voice chilled Kincaid to the heart. “All these years I thought I could make amends by loving her, being part of her goodness. The only thing I couldn’t do was give her a child.… I hoped that grief might be punishment enough.”

“Did you agree to meet Garnet that night in the lane?”

“A customer came into the gallery. I had to get rid of her somehow. And then, waiting in the darkness, I thought how easy it would be.… I didn’t know it was Winnie until it was too late.”

And he had left her to die, Kincaid thought, when he could so easily have called for help.

“But Garnet knew, didn’t she? So the next night you went to her house, and you convinced her to walk up to the spring.”

“I think she knew what was going to happen, at the last. Perhaps she thought her life would finish it. But it wasn’t enough.”

“Bram, let’s go home. It’s over now. Your wife is frantic with worry about you.”

“You don’t understand.”

“I know that Fiona will love you no matter what you’ve done—”

“No. I won’t have her stained with this … this evil—” His gesture with the knife took in the Tor. “Can’t you feel it? Once it begins, only blood will satisfy their hunger.”

“Bram, there’s nothing here. Let’s go home to your wife. We’ll get warm. Have a drink. In the morning, nothing will seem so terrible.” He shifted his weight, judged his distance from the weapon.

“I can’t. Fiona—”

“Garnet was right, Bram. The only way to end this is to tell the truth. Give Fiona the chance to forgive you. She loves you—you owe her that.”

“I—”

“Give me the knife, Bram.” He stepped closer, held out his hand.

“But they—”

“It’s over, Bram, the cycle’s finished. They don’t need your life.” Kincaid tensed, ready to lunge for the weapon.

“I—” Bram put his hands to his face and sagged against the wall. “You’re sure?”

“I’m sure.” Kincaid took the knife from his unresisting fingers. “Let’s go home.”

He guided Bram away from the tower, leaving Fiona’s mutilated painting abandoned against the cold stone.

They began the descent, Kincaid staying as close to Bram as the narrow path allowed. To one side was a sheer drop; mud and loose stones made the footing treacherous. The wind tore at them, tugging at their clothing like invisible hands.

At the first hairpin bend, Bram turned back. He spoke, but the wind snatched the words from his mouth. Then a shower of stones fell from above, striking him. Jerking away from the blows, Bram lost his footing and plunged over the edge.